“And you don’t go without me!” cried Lord Roxton, limping in the rear. They stood together in the candle-lit, shadow-draped passage. Malone had his hand on the balustrade and his foot on the lower step, when it happened. What was it? They could not tell themselves. They only knew that the black shadows at the top of the staircase had thickened, had coalesced, had taken a definite, batlike shape. Great God! They were moving! They were rushing swiftly and noiselessly downwards! Black, black as night, huge, ill-defined, semi-human and altogether evil and damnable. All three men screamed and blundered for the door. Lord Roxton caught the handle and threw it open. It was too late; the thing was upon them. They were conscious of a warm, glutinous contact, of a purulent smell, of a half-formed, dreadful face and of entwining limbs. An instant later all three were lying half-dazed and horrified, hurled outwards on to the gravel of the drive. The door had shut with a crash. Malone whimpered and Roxton swore, but the clergyman was silent as they gathered themselves together, each of them badly shaken and bruised, but with an inward horror which made all bodily ill seem insignificant. There they stood in a little group in the light of the sinking moon, their eyes turned upon the black square of the door. “That’s enough,” said Roxton, at last. “More than enough,” said Malone. “I wouldn’t enter that house again for anything Fleet Street could offer.” “Are you hurt?” “Defiled, degraded--oh, it was loathsome!” “Foul!” said Roxton. “Foul! Did you get the reek of it? And the purulent warmth?” Malone gave a cry of disgust. “Featureless--save for the dreadful eyes! Semi-materialised! Horrible!” “What about the lights?” “Oh, damn the lights! Let them burn. I am not going in again!” “Well, Belchamber can come in the morning. Maybe he is waiting for us now at the inn.” “Yes, let us go to the inn. Let us get back to humanity.” Malone and Roxton turned away, but the clergyman stood fast. He had drawn a crucifix from his pocket. “You can go,” said he. “I am going back.” “What! Into the house?” “Yes, into the house.” “Padre, this is madness! It will break your neck. We were all like stuffed dolls in its clutch.” “Well, let it break my neck. I am going.” “You are not! Here, Malone, catch hold of him!” But it was too late. With a few quick steps, Mr. Mason had reached the door, flung it open, passed in and closed it behind him. As his comrades tried to follow, they heard a creaking clang upon the further side. The padre had bolted them out. There was a great slit where the letter-box had been. Through it Lord Roxton entreated him to return. “Stay there!” said the quick, stern voice of the clergyman. “I have my work to do. I will come when it is done.”